


A Flower in the Desert

by denorios



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-11
Updated: 2010-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denorios/pseuds/denorios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 094 - Independence from the prompt table over at LJ comm pike_2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Flower in the Desert

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. I think the Pike in my head got a little tired of being angsty all the time and decided to do something about it. Oh, and if I've got any of the desert details outrageously wrong, you have my permission to shoot me. Or preferably correct me.

There's a certain freedom, Pike thinks, in not being bound by the rhythms of life aboard a starship: the day-and-night shifts, the duty rosters, the away missions, the endless reports. And before that even, life in Starfleet, at the Academy. There's a comfort in routine, a familiarity. It's a box one never need stray out of. It's safe.

The sun is setting over the Mojave desert, turning the sand to fire. This is his favourite time of day, when the fierce heat of the afternoon begins to fade into the cool of a desert night and the stars come out one by one above. He used to ride for hours at this time, before Nero and the _Narada_. Whenever life at the Academy was too much, whenever he'd lost patience with his cadets or the Starfleet brass, whenever time was passing too slowly and the _Enterprise_ refused to take shape fast enough, he would come home to Mojave and ride.

He misses it. A horse in full gallop, a starship in full warp – there's nothing like it. 'The typical human obsession with speed', Number One once remarked, when he tried to get her on horseback. 'You miss so much by moving so fast'.

If Number One were here she would tell him he was being a fool, that he shouldn't over-exert himself, that she wouldn't be the one putting him back together when he inevitably fell and cracked his skull open, that he could lie for hours, days in the desert before anyone found him. But she's not here, and Pike is tired of playing it safe.

He reaches up to take a firm grasp of Tango's mane and withers. The horse shifts slightly at the sensation and then settles as Pike murmurs to her softly, meaningless soothing words. Perhaps he ought to teach her to kneel, he thinks, it would make this a lot easier. But his physiotherapist told him he needed to work on his upper body strength, and what better way than hauling himself atop a horse that stands as tall as he does?

His arms tremble with the strain and he's suddenly glad Number One isn't here to witness his undignified scramble. He's only thankful that Tango is such a calm horse; it'd only take one twitch, one shift, one sudden shy at a jackrabbit and he'd be sprawling on his face in the dust. But she stands, serene and solid, and eventually he sits upright, sweat standing out on his face, his breath coming in harsh pants.

Tango moves off at his soft cluck. His legs tangle uselessly down her sides and he knows his posture is atrocious, shoulders hunched over, hands clutching at her mane as well as the reins. He can almost hear his father's voice, bellowing at him to 'sit up straight, grip with your thighs, not your ankles, don't tense up, don't cling'.

He loses track of time as he watches the light change over the desert, the red fading slowly to orange, a soft duck-egg blue creeping slowly in before fading to black. The shapes of the cacti merge into the darkness, until almost everything about him is black. He's scarcely guiding Tango, letting her pick her way gently through the sage and yucca. All he can hear is his own soft breathing, Tango's louder huffs, the jingle of the bridle as she tosses her head, the distant yip of a coyote. He could be in space, the darkness is so absolute.

He feels free. For the first time in he can't remember how long it's just him, alone and unencumbered. Astride Tango, out in the desert, he can almost believe that nothing has changed, that if he wants he can jump down from her back and go striding out into the night. He feels as though time has looped back on itself and tomorrow morning he will wake and return to San Franciso, or to Iowa, or perhaps even to the _Yorktown_.

Tango stumbles slightly over something and Pike pitches forward onto her neck, pulled suddenly back to the present, hands grasping frantically to stay on her back. There's a flash of white on the ground below them, and he pulls the mare to a halt gently and peers down.

There below them is a cactus, a cereus. Its white petals glow in the darkness, like a star pulled to earth. It blooms only once a year and only at night. He's never seen it before. He's ridden this desert at night a thousand times and he has never seen this sight.

It's beautiful. He has spent his life looking for beauty amongst stars, supernovas, nebulae, the clean lines of a starship in flight, the varied forms of life out there in the galaxy, eyes blind to the beauty of his own planet, his own home. And all that time waiting for him to come back – a sunset, a horse, a flower in the desert.

For the first time in many months, Christopher Pike smiles.


End file.
